


Soft Cooking

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cooking, Cooking for someone as a love language, Domestic, Location: Alice "Daisy" Tonner's Scottish Safehouse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29276556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: "You know we don't have to eat here, right?" Martin teases. "I mean, with the--with the apocalypse, and all. You've got your statements, and I haven't felt hungry in ages.""Well. I suppose it's not just about whether you feel hungry. I'd like for you to feel full. And warm."Just some soft. for the soul
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	Soft Cooking

"Martin, darling," Jon calls, hunting around the kitchen for bowls and rinsing the dust from them under the sink. Now to find a dishcloth that doesn't smell like mothballs. "I've made dinner." Martin peeks his head inside the kitchen, barefoot and with a book still clutched in his hands. 

"You've what?" he laughs. "When did you have time to find food?" 

"It's mostly canned vegetables, some dry goods. Daisy had a few things in the freezer that didn't seem too freezer-burned, and some spices. She obviously doesn't cook here often, but I did what I could." 

"It smells delicious. Can't believe you pulled this off with one half-full cabinet of tinned food and one Dutch oven." 

The singular pot had, indeed, been a challenge, and Jon is a little happy that Martin noticed the effort. He'd ended up having to make a stew because there was simply nothing else to cook in other than a small saucepan, only big enough to hold a can of beans, and a rusted baking sheet. 

"Well, no guarantees on the quality, but I do hope you like it." He hands Martin the bowl, now clean and dry, and gestures for him to serve himself first, but he doesn't move. 

"You know we don't have to eat here, right?" Martin teases. "I mean, with the--with the apocalypse, and all. You've got your statements, and I haven't felt hungry in ages." 

"Well. I suppose it's not just about whether you feel hungry. I'd like for you to feel full. And warm." 

And suddenly, every one of Martin's too-purple poems becomes clear: the love he'd missed in every gesture. The cups of tea he'd let go cold on his desk without so much as taking a sip. He'd not been thirsty, he'd said at the time, but they weren't just for drinking, they were for warming from the inside out to melt all the ice that nothing else could touch, to slowly wash away scratches and scars on the inside of him like a creek running gently over pebbles until they're round and smooth and shiny. The cardigans, far too big for Jon and certainly not his style, "forgotten" in the chair across from Jon's desk on nights when he'd had too much to do to think about going home. The way the break room kitchen had mysteriously always stocked itself with Jon's favorite snacks even though he knew they weren't anything the office managers were refilling. Love, all of it, and with zero return for years. 

He'd make it up. He takes the bowl from Martin's still-hesitating hands and scoops a few healthy ladlefuls into it. 

"Sit down, Martin. Eat while it's hot." 

They have to brush dust and cobwebs off the table and chairs because really, of course, no one lives here. Each of them know that this is only a place they're staying. With dinner on the table, though, steam thick in the air because of the relative chill serving as the warmest sort of fog Martin has seen in a long time and the kitchen smelling like a proper meal, it's almost like they're at home together.


End file.
